Shouts and Whispers
by Gone2Far
Summary: (A continuation of I Can't Make You Love Me) The government had declared Steve 'Missing and Presumed Dead'. Danny has discovered a letter never intended to be mailed. Catherine is plagued by regret for abandoning the one who loved her.
1. Disposable

**Shouts and Whispers**

 **This is Danny's side of it; a follow-up to "I Can't Make You Love Me". It may be best to read that before you read this one if you haven't already done so. Again, not a romance writer. Doing the best I can. Would appreciate your feedback.**

 **Imaginary Beta did her usual. I hope we can all live with it.**

 **Disclaimer: No remuneration, moolah, dinero, Benjamins, lettuce, bread, dough or any other produce or bakery goods were received as payment for this story.**

*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0* Hawaii 5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*

Disposable

A salty metallic taste filled his mouth as he fought to stay conscious. This was not good.

The sound of gunfire no longer cracked across the clearing on the other side of which they'd made their stand. Did his team make it out? All he could manage was to lie here listening to a bubbling sound that was strangely timed to each inhale and exhale. Opening his eyes seemed much too difficult at the moment.

He could hear someone coming; their feet trampling through the undergrowth where he lay. He knew he should try to get up and run but his limbs wouldn't cooperate. There didn't seem to be any room in his lungs for the air he so desperately sought.

They were nearly on him.

He was only supposed to be gone for a week this time. Danny is gonna be pissed.

Not wanting to give his position away he tried to keep his teeth from chattering as it grew colder and the light filtering through his closed lids began to wane.

Dark tendrils slithered along the edges of his consciousness. Before they tangled into a solid mass obliterating the last bit of light, he wistfully thought - _Will she care?_

…

It was nearly ten PM and he was dog tired. Without Steve around the mantle of command had been dropped upon his shoulders and it was pretty fucking heavy. He should be more appreciative of his annoyingly arrogant partner. He should be less critical and maybe be willing to let him listen to that abominable noise he calls music as much as he wants when he returns. _Well, at least until I can't stand it anymore._ Steve's taste in music was horrifying but, yeah, he could put up with his partner's crap choices for a while.

He'd just picked up his keys and was heading toward the door when the phone rang.

"Dammit!" he said to the empty room as he stopped in his tracks and turned back toward his office. Picking up the receiver he barked "Detective Williams"

"Detective Danny Williams?"

"Yes it is." he replied, surprised it wasn't a voice he recognized. At this hour he'd expected to hear someone from HPD. "Who's calling?"

"I can't tell you my name but I'm a friend of Commander McGarrett and I felt it was right to call someone about this . . . I mean it would be wrong not to . . . I umm . . . I don't know if there'll be any official notification so . . . ." The caller cleared his throat, "I don't know if Steve has any family but he'd mentioned you a couple of times. I thought maybe you'd be the best one to contact."

Skin prickling with heat as blood rushed into his head and his stomach clenched he waited only a second for the mysterious caller to tell him what this was about before blurting, "What's happened to Steve!"

"Detective Williams, I'm sorry to tell you this but Commander McGarrett . . . Steve . . . is missing in action and is presumed dead."

….

He studied the watery violence of the ocean as dark and ominous clouds boiled and billowed overhead. Weather predictors said a storm was coming - a big one. He could feel the vibration through his body as waves boomed and thundered onto the shore. Even the most fearless of those who reveled in balancing on fiberglass planks slipping along a wall of curling water would shrink from challenging this sea.

It had been a week since that cryptic conversation. The caller had whispered an "I'm sorry" before abruptly hanging up. There'd been no time to ask any questions and though he'd tried, the call had been untraceable. He hadn't even told Gracie yet that Steve would never be returning home. She would take it hard. Gracie adored her uncle. How could he tell her she'd never see him again?

The sea rolled on unconcerned as he stood at its edge and wondered where his friend had finally failed to stave off what seemed to stalk him since they'd met. Afghanistan? Pakistan? Somewhere in South America? He'd probably never know.

He knew the military usually provided news of such dire happenings in person; desolation conveyed by practiced procedure accompanied by condolence and form 1770-020. He'd even held out hope the mysterious caller was wrong; that Steve would be returning to his beloved islands and his ohana.

Perhaps it was only because of his unrelenting inquiries regarding his friend's fate but he'd finally gotten a response. Yesterday, people in Navy uniform, one male and one female, both officers, had shown up at headquarters. In near locked step they'd marched past Kono and Chin as dark dread-filled eyes tracked them across the tiles to his office.

Lieutenant Commander Steven J. McGarrett is missing in action and presumed dead. It's official now. Five-0, his ohana, would never be the same. _Nothing_ would ever be as it was.

He'd known all along it could end this way but hoped against hope it wouldn't. Steve had tried to warn him.

Long ago, during a late night stakeout preceded by very little sleep and way too many cups of coffee he'd been bitching to his boss/friend/brother about being stuck with extra duty. This was an evening when he was supposed to be having dinner with his daughter. Steve had felt bad about it but there was nothing that could be done. The Five-0 leader himself had been up nearly thirty-six hours straight filling-in for an injured Kono. That fierce and youngest member of the team had trashed her ankle while chasing down a suspect and, despite her protests, was home with pain meds, an icepack, and a TV remote.

Maybe it was unguardedness brought on by lack of sleep but Steve had been almost chatty that night.

They'd conversed of times past; Danny's remembrances of Gracie's namesake, Grace Tillwell, his Newark PD partner who'd been killed in the line of duty - of the guilt he still felt for not being able to save her.

Steve had spoken of Freddy Hart and his own deep and everlasting regret for not being able to keep his brother-in-arms and best friend from becoming a casualty of a covert mission.

Danny had reminded him, _"You almost didn't make it home yourself."_

Steve had chuffed a wordless response and remained silent for several minutes. Then shifting in his seat he'd turned toward him and with eyes filled with sadness said, _"You know,_ _for the longest time, my only solace was that at least I knew what had happened to him"._

 _"There was that"_ agreed Danny who could think of nothing else to say.

 _"I know it took me a while but I finally got him home to his family."_

That sentence now echoed in Danny's mind.

Perhaps Steve would never come back to Hawaii - his home. Perhaps he'd lie alone forever in a foreign land with no one to mark his final resting place. Danny knew he would never, could never, stop searching for him. But here, alone, with only the surging water to talk to, Steve's words churned in his head like seaweed caught up in swirling tangles in the waves pummeling the shore.

 _You know, Danny, there may come a day when I may not come back from deployment and there'll probably be no official word as to what happened to me._

He remembered staring into those sincere hazel eyes; his own probably reflecting a mixture of anger, frustration, and something that may even have been resignation but his only reply was, _"That's just fucked-up."_

His friend had answered softly, _"Yeah, but it's part of the territory."_

Steve had tried to warn him. He just didn't want to listen.

This, right now, was beyond fucked-up. Since that phone call every day had been too long; every night longer still as sleep was pursued and rarely captured. It was as if everything had been paused like a video waiting for someone to click 'play' and then it would be okay to breathe again.

He'd immediately contacted Joe White who was shaken but told him he'd try to get more information. Every day that passed without word made it ever more likely his brother would never be returning to his beloved islands. He'd live-on only in memories. It would sting like a salted wound forever.

…

Several weeks ago:

Steve wouldn't talk about it and when questioned would withdraw even further into himself. Danny no longer asked. It had finally come to a head one night after the Governor's annual gala to promote Hawaiian commerce. Attendance had been mandatory and the resentment of having to be there rolled off of Steve like a San Francisco fog. Trying to get him to loosen up, Danny had plied him with booze. It had worked maybe a little too well.

They'd taken a cab back to McGarrett's and Danny had crashed on the couch. At nearly dawn he'd awoken to tend to an overly full bladder and on the way back from the bathroom noticed a breeze as though a window or door was open somewhere. Even in his still somewhat inebriated state he'd made a cautious search before realizing there was no threat. The French doors that opened onto the back deck were ajar. In the grey light that signaled dawn he spied his friend slumped in one of the chairs overlooking the water.

Steve deserved his solitude but, ever the worrier, Danny decided to check on him. Making enough noise so as not to startle the SEAL, (never a wise move); he plopped into the chair beside the man who sat staring out at the still slate colored ocean.

"Hey babe." he greeted

"Couldn't sleep?" Steve asked without turning his head.

"Not when this friggin' ocean is pounding away, no. Where did you move the TV to?"

"Cath wanted it upstairs and umm . . . I haven't moved it back down yet. Just got too busy I guess."

Danny nodded though he doubted Steve noticed in the gloom.

As the sky continued to lighten, they sat in silence for several more minutes before Danny asked, "You want me to make some coffee? Something furry slept in my mouth last night. Some of that Kona-blend battery acid you like to brew would be a good idea right now."

Steve didn't respond. It was like he'd never heard him. After a long pause Danny reiterated, "Steven? I asked if . . ."

"Danny" blurted Steve in a cracked voice, "What makes me so easy to throw away? What is wrong with me that makes me so disposable?"

"Babe, you're not . . ."

"She lied to me! She said she loved me!"

Taken aback by his friend's sudden forthrightness Danny paused a moment to gather his thoughts before answering. "I know this is going to sound pretty cliché but it's not you Steven. It was never you."

Steve murmured, "I gave it everything I could and it still wasn't enough."

Danny had no answer for his friend. The two sat looking at the ocean until the water turned to ribbons of color as dawn stole over its surface.

…..

The note had appeared on his blotter this morning. No one had seen who dropped it off. Just like everything else about Steve's mysterious 'missions' there would be no answers. Seated at his desk, he'd unfolded the single sheet of white paper and had read only the first two sentences before his eyes spilled over and everything became a watery blur.

Written in Steve's neat script; as precise and contained as the man himself is . . . was . . . were the words: _Danny, I'm sorry you have to go through this . . ._ The idiot was apologizing for his own death.

Steve's note directed his friend to look in the desk in the study. There resided all the needed documents: forms to be filed with the government, a will, and various documents required to get things settled. The information was well thought out and neatly organized. All had been spelled out in clear, concise terms. There was even a sticky note attached to the last page of the instructions: Danno, bet you thought I couldn't get all this paperwork done, right? Though his eyes once again misted over, Danny actually chuckled.

When rummaging for a pen in the top right-hand drawer he'd come across several sheets of folded paper. He withdrew them, flattened them out on the stained blotter, and immediately realized it as an unfinished letter. The handwriting seemed to vary wildly in neatness but it was recognizable as Steve's. Feeling like a voyeur he warred with himself about reading it but eventually decided that he had to in case it was something that should be passed on to its intended recipient. The words written on those simple sheets of paper devastated him.

He'd known that Steve had missed Cath – a lot. He'd seen that haunted expression that sometimes overtook his friend's face when he sat in his office staring into space; not knowing that anyone was watching. But he truly had no idea how much pain Steve was in.

Without remembering opening the back door to step outside, he found himself standing on the deck in the very same place Steve had no doubt stood countless times before.

Suddenly angry as though it really was all Steve's fault, he turned and punched the wooden support post again and again as the skin of his knuckles split and bled. He knew he'd been warned. The bastard had told him this could happen. Why hadn't he listened and quit while he was ahead?!

Breathing hard while his hand stung and began to swell; the wind off the ocean whipped through his hair and clothing. Each strong gust seemed to shout in anger as it rattled the palms and swayed the trees. Each smaller ebb seemed to whisper a lament.

…

She pulled the scarf off her head and with reddened and raw hands unfolded the wrinkled, sheet of paper that had been handed to her by the old man. She'd left the SAT phone with him for safekeeping while she'd joined a group of women in the village. They'd gathered to do laundry. It was a good place to listen to gossip. Perhaps she'd hear something that would be of help in finding this latest stolen child. She'd just appear to be one of several newcomers who'd fled their homes after husbands and sons had been either killed or conscripted. Speaking the language fluently, her skin now sufficiently weathered, and having dark eyes and hair, she blended in well enough when dressed in traditional clothing. Even though this particular village consisted of mostly females and old men, it wasn't a good idea to reveal her true identity. The Taliban could arrive at any moment.

Atiq spoke British accented English he'd learned long ago when living over the border in Pakistan. In the old man's shaky handwriting was a series of numbers she recognized. Stomach tightening in dread she punched it into the sat-phone and waited for Danny to pick-up. She hadn't spoken with Steve in months. It had to be something serious . . . really serious for his partner to be calling.

"Williams." answered the familiar voice.

"Danny, what's happened? Is Steve okay?" were the first words she blurted.

There was a pause, longer than just the usual delay when talking to someone nearly eight-thousand miles away. Her heart did its best to beat out of her chest while she waited for a reply.

"No." was the one-word answer. Before she could ask what happened he added, "He's been missing for over three weeks."

"What?! Where?!" she asked, trying to regain some calm. Her training required she do so despite wanting to scream into the phone.

"No idea. You know how it works." was Danny's deadened answer.

"Yeah, I know." she barely managed to croak out through a tightened throat. She _is_ aware of how it works – too well. She knew even without asking that this was a mission gone bad and they may never know what happened to Steve.

"Do you have any way to receive mail? Email or whatever. There's something I need to send you." said Danny in a clipped tone. "This is something that you should see in other than texted message form."

"Umm, yeah. I have someone who can take messages for me. I just have to make arrangements to get them. I can give you the email address." she rattled off the email address of someone she knew who dared to keep an account. Steve had known of it but their communication had almost always been by text and a few infrequent phone conversations. They had to be really careful.

"I'm going to scan something and send it. You'll want to read it." said Danny

…

Ending the call after getting the information he again wondered if he was doing the right thing. Maybe Catherine didn't need to read it. Maybe it was cruel but . . . fuck it! This entire situation was cruel

It's cruel to Steve's ohana who may never find out what happened to someone so treasured, and cruel to the woman who very possibly never knew how much she was loved and now had no more time to make it right.

Had Catherine ever really known how Steve felt? How could she not? It was obvious to anyone who knew him. He was strong and stoic in pretty much everything but there were no words needed when those expressive eyes revealed what he'd never intended anyone to see. How could she not know what her leaving would do to a man who could only partially hide a tender core - a heart more vulnerable than he'd ever care to admit.

Hitting 'send' he slumped back into his chair. _Have I done the right thing_

Suddenly jumping up from his chair he yelled "DAMMIT!" and grabbed up the first thing he laid his hand on to throw at the glass wall of his office. The stapler, an ill-fated missile, hit the thick glass and broke apart; the clear barrier having successfully repelled the attack.

As little pieces of metal clinked across the floor, Chin and Kono came running.

"Danny? You okay brah?" asked a wide-eyed Kono

"No." said the detective as he stood there red-faced and breathing hard; trying to contain his anger at Steve, Catherine, the U.S. government and the world in general.

*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0* Hawaii 5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*

 **There will be at least one more part to this story. Not promising any ETA. If you've read my stuff, you know that meeting deadlines is not one of my talents.**

 **Reviews would be very much appreciated.**


	2. The Darkest of Waters

Shouts and Whispers

Chapter 2

 **Okay, I lied again. There'll be one more chapter because posting two that were five-thousand words long made more sense than posting one that was ten-thousand long. Just think of it as having been saved from the chores of contacting the post office to suspend mail delivery and finding someone to feed the cat, dog, kids, whatever, while you slogged your way through it. Thank you all so much for the comments, follows and favorites. I think I've gotten back to you all but if I haven't I apologize.**

 **Errors may abound because Imaginary Beta split before completing her mission. Something about squirrels.**

 **Disclaimer: I know I don't get paid for this but I'm hoping someone will at least chuck me a few chocolate coated peanuts. Actually, chocolate coated anything. I'm easy.**

*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0* Hawaii 5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*

The Darkest of Waters

As the darkness began to recede he realized he was lying on damp earth. Its pungent smell filled his nostrils as he listened to approaching footsteps. It must be shock that chilled him as though he was lying on frozen tundra rather than on the composted soil of a rainforest. He clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering.

They were getting closer.

….

She'd stolen back to the house in the dusty village on the outskirts of a larger town.

Dust motes floated through sunlight spearing through tattered curtains. This dwelling had been strafed with gunfire more than once during fierce battles between villagers and Taliban. Bullet holes pockmarked both the exterior and interior of the two foot thick walls made of mud hardened like concrete. Adobe is a construction material that has been in use for centuries. While not prestigious, the masonry is nearly bulletproof and provides fairly efficient insulation from both heat and cold.

The bloodstains that had remained on its surface despite repeated scrubbings were almost completely faded now.

…

Though chances were slim, if he could be still enough and give no indication there remained any life in his body maybe they'd conclude he was dead. Hopefully, no one would take it upon themselves to pull out a pistola and put an insurance round into his head.

Footsteps came to a stop beside him. Despite lying face down he could smell tobacco as whoever it is knelt down to check him more closely for signs of life. His inspector leaned in close enough that his breath could be felt on the back of his neck. Suddenly, he was rolled onto his back. Managing to keep his eyes closed and his body slack despite the pain, he struggled to hold his breath. Thankfully the guy did a visual only and didn't check for a pulse.

He heard a soft grunt of confirmation or maybe it was just part of the effort the man used to back to his feet. When footsteps began to retreat he thought he may actually have succeeded in playing possum and the enemy now considered him history.

"El esta muerto" (He's dead.) he heard from several feet away.

 _Yes!_

"Cercioarse!" (Make sure!) Was the reply from an even greater distance.

 _Shit._

The man, grumbling under his breath, approached once again.

Footsteps once again came to a stop next to where he lay and, after a brief pause, he was kicked experimentally. A boot thudded into his left side close enough to his wound that the pain he'd been suppressing ignited into flame. He gasped and cried out.

"Él todavía está vivo!" (He's still alive!) The foiler of his plan yelled to his companions. The guy sounded disappointed or perhaps worried he would be chastised for not being thorough enough earlier.

Eyes squeezed shut in agony, he curled in on himself; gasping for air between groans. His groans quickly turned to coughs that did nothing to clear his lungs. Every breath was a wet wheeze as the pain in his head nearly outdid the pain in his chest.

Though he couldn't see who approached he heard several sets of feet now trampling through vegetation. He had no idea how many there were. During the firefight several of their number had been killed and they would surely hold it against him when considering his fate. All he could do now was try to keep air moving in and out of his lungs. Any reserves he could call on to raise his eyelids, (or jump up and beat the shit out of the guy who'd kicked him) had been exhausted by the effort required to breathe.

He was pushed roughly onto his back once again as one of the group slapped the sides of his face and barked, "Abre los ojos hijo de puta!"

He knew he'd been ordered to open his eyes. He also knew that 'Hijo de puta', literally translated, meant son of a whore though 'motherfucker' was its colloquial meaning. He tried really hard to get out the words 'Go to hell' but they were lost in a soggy cough that produced an alarming amount of blood. Intending to try again he turned his face to spit it out but the movement made his head spin and he may have blacked out for a brief moment.

His assailant, annoyed by the delay, had renewed his efforts. His exhortations became angrier and louder and were accompanied by slaps that had become even more vigorous.

"Dije abre los ojos! Despertarse!" (I said open your eyes! Wake up dammit!)

He lay stubbornly unforthcoming as the blows and angry barks continued. His thought just before losing consciousness was _I'm really fucked,_ or, in the language of his captors, 'Estoy realmente jodido' . . . big time.

…

Sakina had survived the deaths of her husband, her two oldest sons and most of her adult male relatives. She had lived here in this village among members of a loving family her entire life. Most of them were gone now. Many had been killed and many others had fled. She'd stayed on.

She'd also managed to defiantly maintain an internet connection despite the danger in doing so. Now that she'd sent Furhan and his sister Azadah to relatives living in a safer part of the country, she was even more adamant about maintaining a link to a world where women had no fear of speaking their minds.

She could never give in to men who, under the guise of religion, murdered those who disagreed with them and viewed women as chattel to be used in any way they saw fit. She'd die before allowing anyone to force her to live as less that a whole person. She knew it may yet come to that . . . her death at the hands of those who sought to go backward in time. Till then, she'd stay and try to make a difference.

Awaiting the email she'd checked her account several times that morning. When it had finally appeared in her in-box, she sent the old man to tell her it was here.

Hafizah should be arriving any moment now. Meaning guardian or protector the name is apt. It was unwise to use a western name should it slip out in an unguarded moment. Her friend had been using the name she, Sakina, had given her rather than the one given by her parents . . . Catherine.

She owed the American woman. There was no way to repay her for finding and returning Furhan her youngest and only surviving son to her. There were not enough riches in the world to settle such a profound debt. Though it wasn't much she was most happy to share whatever she had with the brave rescuer of her son.

She heated water for tea and set out her only unbroken china cup, the one with roses and doves painted on it. Hafizah liked that one.

Minutes later there was a knock on the door and a familiar voice called out. As she went to welcome her in, Sakina said a brief prayer that the emailed document conveyed only happiness.

….

Simply breathing was a painful and arduous task. His head was killing him as well. He vaguely remembered being clipped high over his right ear; a bullet burning a trail across his scalp.

They wanted information about his mission - the one that could cause an international incident if discovered. They demanded he tell them why American soldiers were in their country.

In his mind he'd responded to their latest demands with a furious, _You can all go fuck yourselves!_

But from the derisive chuckle heard from one of his captors perhaps he'd actually said the words aloud. The guy who thought him so funny translated it for his companions and several more joined in on the hilarity.

The disturbance in his equilibrium continued and, with each hit to his face, became worse. In another minute he'd be throwing-up. Maybe he could aim for the boots that continued to thud intermittently into his ribs as he lay on the loamy ground.

Reluctantly coming to the conclusion it may be best to play along for the moment to keep from being kicked or bitch-slapped to death, and needing time to figure a way to escape, he raised his lids. As light hit his retinas fierce pain immediately shot through his head. He gagged and slammed his eyes shut. Puking right now is a bad, bad, very bad idea.

"Open your eyes cabron!" ordered one of the blurry blobs he'd glimpsed only briefly. This voice belonged to the translator of his earlier very clever reply. Though he understood what was being said, he wasn't sure if the words were in English or Spanish. The circuits required for language processing had apparently been fried by the fireworks exploding in his brain.

"Open your eyes or I will kill you where you are!" declared the translator, his voice quieter this time - more like the hiss of a snake.

He cautiously blinked his eyes open once again. There were no fireworks this time but he was able to discern only vague human-like shapes surrounding him. He'd have to assume the wonky vision was due to a pretty serious concussion.

Then, without anticipation, hands grabbed him and pulled him roughly into a sitting position and held him there. The pain in his chest rose to a level that sent black spots sailing across his already limited vision. They threatened to merge with the blurry blobs of his captors. Like a carnival ride, the ground seemed to rumple and tilt beneath him. Nausea accompanied its movement.

"Levántese y camine, maldita sea! Yo no voy a llevar a usted pendejo!" (Get up and walk dammit! I'm not going to carry you, asshole!) Things were improving though. He could at least recognize he was being dissed in Spanish.

 _They want me to get up and walk? Hell, I can barely breathe_.

The elephant on his chest still refused to give up its seat and every inhale and exhale still made that sort of bubbling sound. Any attempt to clear his lungs brought up an alarming amount of blood and increased the pain in his head by tenfold. Coughing only succeeded in making him want to puke.

 _So, avoid coughing if at all possible. Got it._

They suddenly jerked him upward and he cried out once again in agony.

"Shut up pendejo. We're going for a walk." said the translator mostly in English

Standing there swaying; their hands tightly gripping his arms to keep him upright, he realized that at some point they'd bandaged his wound. It was very probably soaked through because he could feel the cloth loosen and sag.

Expecting him to miraculously be able stand on his own, the blobs let go their hold. There was no way his legs would support him and he immediately crumpled to the ground. He didn't even feel it when he landed on his face.

….

The team stood at the smart table going over the latest findings in a case they'd been slogging through for days. The heart had been taken out of them. Without Steve to provide the spark; the fire that drove Five-0 would never reignite.

These days they were only going through the motions.

Kono had been putting out feelers trying to get some momentum going as a surf instructor. She was tired of pretending this mattered anymore. Without Steve, none of it mattered. Try as she might to conjure the idea of being okay with someone filling that hauntingly empty office, she failed. Her leader, friend, and mentor would never sit behind that desk again or chase down and tackle a suspect. She'd never again see that lopsided grin or hear him chuckle at her enthusiasm for kicking ass. She'd loved being part of Five-0 and loved her teammates but it was just too painful to do this without him. Steve is gone. It's time to leave.

Though there'd remained a cloud of suspicion even after being cleared of any wrongdoing, Chin was contemplating going back to HPD. Five-0's track record _may_ help get him get past any initial reluctance by his brothers in blue. But beside holding onto their attitude toward him, some still held a grudge against its late leader. Steve, without causing any fatalities, had taken out several of HPD's finest in a bid for freedom when he'd been wrongly accused of murder. The chief had been beside himself and there'd been some ass kissing to be done but Steve remained unapologetic to anyone but those he'd actually harmed. Chin smiled wistfully at the memory of it. The man had been a pistol.

No mistaking, Danny is an excellent leader. Different in style and maybe a bit less stressful to work for than the SEAL whose adrenaline fueled approach to police work kept them all on their toes. Danny worked differently. Though not nearly as uptight as he'd been in the past regarding proper procedure, (spending time with Steve could do that to a guy), the Jersey detective's approach to the job was more in the vein of traditional police work. It didn't solve cases any faster but they didn't worry nearly as much about buying it in a hail of gunfire. Still, Chin knew he'd have followed Steve McGarrett to the ends of the earth. Staying here only produced memories that continued to break his heart. His request for transfer was already written. He just had to sign and date it.

Danny had no idea what to do. The world had lost its color. He no longer had his best friend to keep him from being victim to his own pessimistic nature. Steve had always somehow, by word or just by example, kept him from wallowing in his own cynicism.

He glanced again at the glass-walled space that had been Steve's office. It seemed to mock him with its emptiness. He hadn't had the heart to finish boxing up the nautical tchotchkes; most of which were placed there by the decorator hired by the late and unlamented Governor Jameson. He knew Steve thought most of the décor ostentatious but their current governor was actually the one who'd talked him into leaving it intact. Denning had been adamant that the leader of The Governor's Special Task Force needed an office that wasn't just a place to store extra ammo. It should reflect the image of an accomplished and effective state agency, (and in turn make the Governor himself appear that way as well). Steve had only grudgingly conceded. Over time, he'd even added a few things. Items like photos of ohana, comrades from his past, and the glass case filled with his dad's and his grandfather's medals and combat ribbons.

Those things, Steve's own personal stuff, had been carefully packed into the boxes that remained neatly stacked next to his desk. His second in command had taken it upon himself to sort and box things up but had stopped before the task was complete. He'd discovered a medal still in its case that had been shoved into the back of a drawer. It was one that had been awarded for valor under fire when Steve, though wounded himself, had run back to rescue one of his men who'd been cut down during a fierce firefight. Both of them bleeding heavily, he'd managed to carry his wounded teammate to the chopper that awaited them at the pick-up point.

Of course, he'd never heard that story directly from Steve. It only came to light when one of his friend's fellow SEALs, the recovered man himself, had stopped by the office one evening and they'd gone out for drinks.

The former Lieutenant, now Lieutenant Commander David Guerra, had a couple days left of his leave between deployments and they'd all gone to Sidestreet to party. Guerra was scheduled to ship out the next afternoon. His friend's former teammate had regaled them with the harrowing tale of his rescue; the one that had earned Steve the medal.

That star that lay in its velvet lined box was symbol of a man who would leave no one behind no matter the cost to himself. But Danny knew that, to Steve, it only symbolized his failure. He'd failed to bring Freddy back alive instead of in a flag-draped coffin two years after he'd been killed. The medal had been stashed behind one of the procedure manuals given to him by a frustrated former Jersey detective.

Danny had held it in his hand for several minutes contemplating its significance. Finally, he placed it reverently into the carton with the other items; photos of brothers-in-arms, (some still living, some dead), along with the case of ribbons. Eyes spilling over, he closed the corrugated flaps and sealed the container of memories with packing tape.

…..

As Catherine logged-in, she knew her use of the link had to be brief because if discovered, it could get her friend killed.

Luckily today, the power had stayed on. She sat totally focused on the screen of the battered laptop as she navigated to the in-box. Clicking on the file to open it she recognized the form of the document Danny had scanned and sent. It was a letter . . . in Steve's handwriting. Pausing for a moment to take a deep breath and steel herself; she began to read. In her head, his deep soft voice spoke the words on the page. Words so full of hurt it made her physically ache.

 _I thought you did love me. You said you did._

She pulled the scarf off her head and twisted its ends in her fingers.

 _I guess I just can't get my head around the fact that you chose to be there instead of here - with me._

Sakina quietly set a cup of tea beside her but it went unnoticed.

 _It just hurts more than I ever thought it would but I understand._

"Of course he would say that he understands" she whispered to the now empty room. Blinking to clear blurring eyesight she read on.

 _I've always loved you even if it took me way too many years to tell you._

She'd always known he loved her and, despite her abandonment, she knows he'd loved her still as she made a life away from him halfway across the world.

Fierce and unshakable love had allowed him to encourage her pursuit of the ultimately ill-fated venture with Billy Harrington. Love was knowing she and Billy had a history yet trusting her without question. When he'd said, 'Cath, we're good', he'd taken her breath away with the conviction with which he'd said it.

It hadn't been just physical; though when he'd looked at her through his long lashes and his pupils dilated to black pools, her heart had nearly beat out of her chest.

It was love and trust and . . . she'd destroyed it.

He loved her. She'd known that fact surely as she knew the sun would rise but what she hadn't known was that he would be so devastated by her leaving. Lieutenant Commander Steven J. McGarrett had always been a man so strong and so confident he could overcome any obstacle if he just put mind and body to it. He was tough, even hard at times. Maybe being around his ohana had softened those sharp edges more than she'd known.

With sudden disgust, she realized she was only trying to make herself feel better. She bit her lip until she tasted blood.

…

Once again he woke to yelling but this time he kept his eyes closed. Opening them would only mean another trip on the carnival ride.

He heard someone say in disgust, "Déjarlo aquí! Él va a morir de todos modos!" (Leave him here! He's going to die anyway!)

Several other voices joined the first in a noisy squabble that grew more heated by the minute. There were some who seemed to be arguing against his abandonment. Suddenly, a loud popping noise followed by the sound of a body hitting the ground ended the argument.

He was tempted to see what was going but his eyelids refused to budge this time. His head felt strange; as though it belonged on another body; on another man. The one in Hawaii who surfed and drank Longboards and laughed with his ohana. The one who strangely enjoyed listening to the rants of his best friend.

The one that lay skin on skin under the stars with the woman he loved.

Maybe she'd forgotten him. Maybe she'd found another to lie under the stars with. He supposed it didn't matter anyway. He wasn't going to survive this. Strangely, he could hear her voice even over the angry exhortations of his captors . . . _Catherine?_

The toe of a boot crashed into his side and blinding pain stole what was left of his breath. He didn't even have time to welcome the darkness.

…..

She'd finished reading and closed the lid of the laptop. His words burned into her brain and her soul as though branded.

Those who didn't really know him thought him impervious. It wasn't true. She'd known all along, since nearly their first meeting that the carefully constructed armor hid a tender heart.

That was part of the problem . . . of her problem.

 _Did I lean on you one too many times?_ He'd asked _._

When she'd read that line, face burning with shame, she had to stop. Had he intuited something about her?

According to his partner, Steve had no skills at all in that area. Tears trailed down her cheeks, but that thought almost made her smile. Though he could at times miss some of the subtleties she'd never thought him insensitive. In fact, she'd loved him all the more for his unique mixture of no-nonsense, matter-of-fact, worldliness tempered by a sweet ingenuousness.

Startled to notice the cooling tea that sat next to the laptop; she picked up the delicate, rose painted, cup in shaking hands. The hurt and self-recrimination in the question was palpable. _Did I lean on you one too many times?_

It hurt to realize there was truth to it in a roundabout way. She loved Steve with all her heart and felt honored that he'd confided in her but . . . she was frightened. The frantic call from her friend Amir that sent her on this journey provided an excuse for escape.

She'd been handed a heart so strong yet so fragile she was nearly drowned by the responsibility of being its keeper.

She sat contemplating what she'd read as dust motes like bright glitter floated through shafts of sunlight striping the floor of the silent room. She was no better than so many others in his past. She'd broken his trust. Fractured a heart so dear it made her ill to realize the depth of her betrayal

Throat so tight she couldn't swallow the now lukewarm tea; she set the cup back onto the wooden table.

"I'm such a fucking coward!" she sobbed aloud as she drew her scarf upward and buried her face in the rough cloth.

….

They wrapped up their work for the night, congratulated one another on a successfully completed case, and bid each other farewell until it started all over again tomorrow. There were no more case-closed barbeques at the big house on the beach or celebrations at their favorite bar. It just wasn't the same.

He steered the Camaro through the now dark and quiet streets. It still felt strange that he should be driving his own car. Steve always insisted on driving despite the fact the damned car wasn't even his. A few times, much to the amusement of the wonder twins, they'd even gotten into wrestling matches over the keys. He missed it.

The guy was an original alright; tough as leather and harder than tempered steel but at the same time strangely vulnerable.

He had no idea how Steve weathered the shit storms that plagued his life. No idea how his brother had managed not to let the events of his past defeat him. He'd always had the strength and the resilience to keep coming back for more.

His favorite analogy was that the guy just kept bobbing up like a Champagne cork after the Titanic had sunk. Steve had laughed when he'd told him of it.

Now, he wondered bleakly if it was Catherine's leaving that had finally succeeded in sinking his friend beneath the darkest of waters . . . and kept him there.

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 **One more chapter. Honest. Even though most of the final chapter is already written I'm not setting an ETA. We all know how that worked out with this one.**

 **PLEEEEAASSE review. Or at least send chocolate.**


	3. Hearts of Paper and Stone

Shouts and Whispers

Chapter 4

 **Here is the final chapter. I know it's gigantic but it needed to be if I wanted to conclude the story in one installment and before the premier of the new season.**

 **Imaginary Beta rushed through this so I may sneak back to correct errors she didn't catch during her ninety-mile-per-hour proofing.**

 **Thank you all so much for your reviews, follows and favorites. Your final thoughts on this story would be much appreciated.**

 **Disclaimer: If I made money from this there'd be someone at the keyboard transcribing my words as I lay in the arms of a tall dark tattooed man. Well, maybe not every word . . . umm . . . definitely not every word. Story? What story?**

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Hearts of Paper and Stone

Gunfire woke him.

Shivering as he lay on hard ground, he couldn't hear voices or anyone moving about – only the sound of a fierce firefight.

This time, the cause of the tremors that ran through his body may be due more to ambient temperature than shock. Though it never got very cold in this part of the world, anything approaching cool would be enough to chill someone who'd suffered significant blood loss. If not by the chill, then by the feel of the sodden cloth wrapped around his chest he knew he fell into that category.

He was still tethered by wrists and ankles to a stout pole, the ends of which had been carried on the shoulders of two men. To say it had been an uncomfortable way to travel was understatement. Like the carcass of an animal his body had swung between the two porters as he was jolted along. Vegetation slapped at him on all sides during the first part of the journey but he didn't remember there being any after a while. Of course, he'd probably passed-out by then.

Judging by the rocky ground beneath him and the echoing sound of the volleys they must be at a higher elevation; above the forest floor and possibly climbing toward the Pakaraimas. That would mean they were several miles from where he'd been captured and he'd been out cold for some length of time.

The elephant on his chest had apparently gained weight since he'd last been conscious. It was even more difficult to draw sufficient air into his lungs and the sound corresponding with each inhale and exhale is now nearly like the bubbling of an aerator in a fish tank - not even remotely encouraging.

Maybe it was giddiness brought on by blood loss but he felt there was a sort of dark humor to this. No wonder there'd been opposition to bringing their prisoner along instead of abandoning him in the undergrowth where he'd fallen. It had no doubt occurred to the protestor, (possibly the late protestor), that they would have to carry their prisoner up an incline for quite a distance; their goal most likely a base camp on high ground. Though due to haphazard meals and little time to rest he was at the lighter end of his weight range, and the burden was shared between two men, a hundred-seventy-odd pounds is still heavy when negotiating an incline.

With a mental smirk he thought, _Good! I hope at least one of the fuckers has slipped a disc!_

He twisted his wrists in the hemp that bound them so tightly his hands had no feeling. He couldn't really see his feet but they felt similarly tied. He was pretty sure the bastards had stolen his boots.

Straining to slide the rope along the pole so that he could slip it over the end and untether his hands, he could feel what little strength he had quickly ebbing. His eyesight not having improved; even if he managed to free himself he wouldn't be able to see where he was going. That was a detail yet to be worked out. He inched his wrists further up the pole, the rope catching on its rough surface and making the maneuver all the more difficult. With his limited strength it seemed hopeless but it was in his DNA to fight to his last breath - even one that seemed so very imminent.

The gunfire continued to crack and echo around him. He could tell it was mostly automatic rifle fire as well as what sounded like smaller caliber sidearms.

Suddenly, the din ceased and all was quiet.

Several more minutes passed before the silence was broken by the sound of footsteps. Trying to work faster as they crept toward him in the darkness he was hampered when the rope hung up on the knobby remains of a branch near the end of the pole. Though he tried his best to suppress it, his struggle produced a cough that again brought blood to his mouth and fiery pain to his head.

"Quien esta ahi?!" (Who's there?!) He heard a voice ring out.

His heart pounded in his chest; its rhythm too fast and not entirely steady as he continued his attempt to escape his bonds.

"Identificante!" (Identify yourself!) Demanded the speaker; this time from a bit closer.

Now he heard several people moving about in the darkness. He could hear boots scraping over rock, harsh breathing and not entirely hushed grunts of effort as they approached.

The winners of the battle continued to call out in the darkness, demanding a response. At this point, he supposed it didn't matter which side had been victorious. Neither of the factions who'd been warring with one another for several years is amenable to having foreign soldiers on their soil. The outcome for him would be all the same.

They'd be on him soon. The last of his strength had drained with the blood that continued to seep through his bandages. The night closed over him as voices continued to call out in its blackness and the frantic hammering of his heart began to stutter.

….

She'd dried her eyes on the ends of her scarf and now sat staring at the empty room as she contemplated her own callousness. _How could I have left him?_

He wasn't perfect, (in fact, some would say far from it), but he was perfect for her. Steve had been everything she _should_ want: loving, loyal, smart, kind, funny, and hot as hell.

Steven McGarrett and Catherine Rollins had been molded from a single batch of clay and fired in the same furnace. Then as separate and immutable fragments they'd traveled their own roads until they met again to fuse almost effortlessly into a perfect whole.

She had fractured that perfection. It may not be possible to un-break a heart, but now she'd never get the chance to try.

….

They were exhausted. Despite the fact they'd successfully concluded this latest case, (the mystery of the missing Swedish tourist), Denning was none too pleased. Their esteemed governor said they'd taken far too long to solve it and the state's most profitable industry would suffer for lack of a more timely resolution.

The well-publicized incident had unsettled those sunburned sources of the state's largest income. Unsure they weren't going to be the next ones abducted while sipping umbrella festooned drinks and watching the swaying hips of hula dancers; quite a few had cut their vacations short. Danny had told Kono that, as far as he was concerned, _"Sam Denning could take his opinion and every mai tai slurping tourist on this island and shove them up his ass – maybe along with a truckload of pineapples."_

Remembering his words, Kono snorted in tired amusement as she hit the icon to save her completed report and set about decluttering her desk before leaving for the evening. The paper coffee cups and other debris of spending far too much time here with little left to neaten up was all too obvious. Putting the last of the discarded food wrappers into the plastic trash bag, she thought sadly, _Steve would have had a cow if he'd seen this mess._

Whatever the reason, it _had_ taken a bit longer than usual to solve the case and, as it turned out, the missing woman had voluntarily split. After spending nearly two weeks here, the day before she was to return home, Mrs. Ekdahl had run away with one of the dancers from Sneaky Pete's Tiki Review. She and the local girl had been tracked down to their love nest in Makakilo.

Relieved his wife was unharmed, but devastated to learn of her deceit, her heartbroken husband had left for Stockholm the day after she'd been found. He'd no idea she'd been so unhappy in what he'd thought was a solid marriage. He had thought she'd loved him. The fact that she'd run away with another woman and there was no male competitor with which to compare himself helped very little.

When breaking the news, Kono had watched transparent emotion play across the man's face; relief followed by disbelief followed by anguish. She'd tried to comfort him; saying there was really nothing he could have done to make his wife stay. It didn't help. He'd replied to the sympathetic Hawaiian cop that, even though it hadn't been enough, he'd loved Annika with all his heart. No matter that she'd broken it; he hoped his wife would someday come back to him.

Kono sighed and hit 'send'. Danny, their pro-tem leader, needed to review what she'd written in her report. Steve had always just trusted that she'd done it correctly but Danny was more dogged in his determination that all T's be crossed and all I's dotted.

Maybe her friend and mentor, though the badest of badasses, had trusted those he cared for a bit too much. _He'd trusted that Catherine loved him enough to come back to him and look where that had gotten him!_ She thought bitterly.

Kono, in her own way as protective toward those she loved, wasn't sure what to think of Catherine's abandonment of someone who so obviously loved her. Every time she'd seen Steve sitting in his office, just staring into space, she'd wanted to call the woman and ask, "What the hell!?" But knowing it was none of her business, of course she never did. Maybe she should have.

Sniffing back tears that threatened to escape her dark eyes, she picked up her keys, badge, and gun so she could leave. There was desperate need to catch a few waves before collapsing into bed for the night.

She found solace in the ocean. It had always been a bond that she and Steve had with one another – this seeking comfort in the rolling water of the Pacific. He'd also understood her drive to be the best cop on the island, if not in the universe. It was unthinkable that she'd never again see that trademark grin and quick nod when she'd done something he approved of, usually after she'd kicked some deserving ass. It was unthinkable that she'd never again receive a comforting hug from someone who, besides being her boss, was very like a big brother - a very scary brother but one with a kind and tender heart.

The tears she'd been holding back now coursed down her face as she hurried toward the exit. If she isn't able to get all the way to the ocean to cry it out without anyone seeing her, maybe she could at least get to her car.

…

They were asking him questions but answering would require more energy than he had. When he'd come-to this time, he could tell he was no longer lying on the ground. And though his chest and head still hurt, they didn't hurt quite as much. It also isn't as dark anymore. He could tell this by the light that glowed through his eyelids.

Assuming the victors of the highland battle are those who now have him in custody; at least they aren't as harsh when asking questions. No one had smacked him across the face yet or kicked him in the ribs. That was good. He knew he should be worried but that too would require energy that was currently lacking.

He lay with eyes closed, contemplating his possible fate. Of course he wasn't even supposed to be in this country. If he was identified as a U.S. Navy SEAL it could cause an international incident. This had been a highly secret mission. If his team had managed to escape, then other than his own capture, it had also been a successful one. But no one could come to retrieve him and his ohana would probably never know what had happened to him. He felt bad they'd have to go through that but as he'd once told Danny, 'It's part of the territory'.

His thoughts again drifted to Catherine. He wondered where she is. Is she safe? Is she happy? He can't even be angry at her. She'd done what she had to but he wishes he could see her one last time, drink in her smile, stroke her hair . . .

Someone was speaking to him. Perhaps he'd rejoiced too soon because they're poking at him now. He groaned when he felt hands shifting him from his back to his side; pain had once again reared its ugly head. The light faded as darkness drew him into its embrace.

…..

Glad it was over and they could get back to plans that had been put on hold, the detective was just finishing the last of the, (for him), haphazard report. For anyone else on the team it would have been perfection but his reports were usually works of art. It was a skill, if not inborn, then learned out of necessity. He'd had to be artful to get past the watchdogs at the state's budgeting office. Just before Steve had left for what had turned out to be his last assignment; he'd been called on the carpet for expending a six-month supply of ammo in only two months. Also in question was the request for the state to repair yet another fence that had been crashed through while Steve had been pursuing a suspect . . . this time with the Silverado. Though his second-in-command smiled at the memories, the bleakness that continued to engulf him did not abate.

In any case, this report wasn't very artistic at all. It was more in the dry minimalistic style that had been employed by Steve. Much like his every day speech, Five-0's leader had held fast to the saying, 'the fewer words the better'. The brevity of his reports had endeared him to no one but Harriet, the assistant to the director of the Risk Management Office of the State of Hawaii's Department of Accounting and General Services or, as Steve had called them - the bean counters. The harried woman had said on more than one occasion, "I don't have time to wade through all the bullshit. Just keep it brief dammit!" She too would miss their leader.

The cousins were already on their way home to that which comforted them; Chin to Malia and Kono likely to the closest spot to catch a few waves. Their pro-tem leader wouldn't be far behind. Exhaling loudly, Danny affixed his signature and threw the stapled sheets into his out-basket. There was another, more important, matter that needed his undivided attention.

He needed to confirm the arrival time of Mary's flight and make sure there was someone to pick her up at the airport. Even after several days had passed, the woman continued to be a mess and, even if she had the presence of mind to rent a car, he didn't trust her to drive. When she'd been notified of the Navy's final declaration of her brother being 'assumed dead', she'd totally lost it. He'd had to call her boyfriend to tell him to go check on his boo. 'Brad', a personal trainer, hadn't sounded like a rocket scientist but he seemed genuinely concerned.

Glad that Steve had written down the number of his sister's latest BF in the file he'd been keeping on her – apparently for several years - the Jersey detective had remained appalled that Steve thought it necessary to so thoroughly keep tabs on his sister. Even if Mary was a handful and a half it still seemed wrong.

He remembered declaring, (only half in jest), "What is the matter with you people?! Is this spy stuff genetic?! It's really disturbing that you feel it necessary to surveil your sister as though she's an operative of a hostile government!" Then, thinking it would be best to ask, he'd added, "She isn't, is she?"

Steve had rolled his eyes before explaining that, with Mary's past 'issues', it was the only way to somewhat ensure her wellbeing. He'd never told anyone but during the first time he'd been deployed after Five-0 had been established, (the hated 'classified' word came up), he'd been contacted by his C.O. and told to call the LAPD. Luckily, they were already on their way back from their mission so he been able to get in touch with a detective in the Los Angeles Police Department almost immediately. He'd learned that Mary had been reported missing by her latest BF.

Upon his return to base, without telling anyone at Five-0, he'd gone directly to L.A. where, with the assistance of 'friends', (classified as well), his sister had eventually been found.

She'd been staying, temporarily she'd insisted, in a fortified compound established by people who believed humans were being systematically kidnapped by alien beings and their brains removed. Danny hadn't even laughed when Steve had told him this tale. Besides, he wasn't so sure it was all that farfetched – it certainly explained the Kardashians. When her worried brother, again employing 'friends', was able to get her home safely, Mary had explained she'd run to get away from the boyfriend's abuse and was afraid that he'd track her down. Who better to find protection with than paranoid, tinfoil-hat-wearing, yahoos who'd established a well-guarded compound and sounded the alarm if anything looked suspicious, (and pretty much everything looked suspicious). Steve had said he could even understand why she'd gone there. The boyfriend, of course, had been mysteriously persuaded to leave Mary alone.

Danny smiled sadly when contemplating the dichotomy that was his friend. The guy was a strange mix of cold logic and suspect rationality; all of it contained by the need to protect those he loved. Throat once again tightening uncomfortably, he shook himself and picked up the phone. He knew it was late but he needed to talk to Rachel. Grace too had been nearly inconsolable when told her uncle would never be coming home again. He needed to check on his daughter and maybe listen to a voice that could offer comfort. Despite their past animosity toward one another, Rachel would understand.

….

The language spoken in this country had that pleasant shss sound Brazilians call s chiada. He didn't understand all of what was said, some due to the head injury and some because his fluency in Spanish was sometimes no help in understanding Portuguese.

His language skills had been only minimally employed with the rebels who'd stumbled across the half-dead American. One time he'd resurfaced during a disconcertingly déjà vu moment. They were arguing the pros and cons of taking him with them. Finally deciding that perhaps he may be worth money if he could be ransomed, they'd hauled his ass to a nearby town.

There he'd been looked after by a doctor, (well, a pharmacist), until they could figure out what to do with him. The guy had done his best to patch up the hole in his chest and bandage the deep gouge over his ear. The bleeding in his lung had eventually stopped, or at least slowed, and though his thoughts remained murky, his vision had sufficiently cleared.

Eventually, someone contacted someone else who contacted the American embassy on the other side of the border and arrangements were made. When the pharmacist had either deemed him stable enough to travel or perhaps had just thrown up his hands in defeat, he'd been smuggled through one of the more remote mountain passes to a village on the other side.

He remembered being bounced along in the bed of a four-wheel-drive truck of some sort as rocky walls towered on both sides of them. The driver had cursed under his breath when a wheel hit a rock and the truck lurched. The jolt caused his passenger to scream in pain but he'd been quickly silenced by a dirty hand clamped over his mouth. He'd promptly blacked out once again.

His next memory was of someone giving him a quick shave with a safety razor and hands pulling off his clothing then redressing him. He was given instructions to stand and walk when he was told.

The authorities here were distrustful of Americans and watched the embassy 24/7 for comings and goings. As their car pulled up to the gates of the ornate building, someone hissed in his ear, "Tienes cajones gringo pero todos estamos jodidos si se cae!" (You've got balls gringo but if you fall we're all screwed!). He didn't fall.

While dressed as one of the embassy guards coming on shift, he'd only just managed to walk far enough to make it through the doorway before collapsing. He'd lain in a bed at the embassy for nearly a week being treated by an actual doctor with actual medical equipment and medications but despite everyone's best efforts, a serious infection had set in.

Only after finally getting to a hospital was it discovered that the bullet that had caused the furrow in his scalp had actually fractured his skull; but it was the chest wound that had nearly finished the job.

He'd spent days in feverish delirium and when he'd finally become cognizant, the woman who'd been his nurse had smiled and asked him who Catherine is. He guessed the expression on his face had been enough of an answer. She'd patted him on his arm and said, "Esta tudo bem, (It's alright). Apenas descansar por agora, (Just rest for now)."

….

She thought she would get used to being without him. Waking without his warmth beside her; his arms wrapped around her body as though protecting her from anything that dare cause her harm.

Steve was a fierce protector; of his country, his ohana, his islands . . . of her. She knew he'd been frustrated by his inability to protect her from guilt and grief after Billy had been killed. Despite knowing from his own experience that she'd ultimately have to work through it on her own; he'd so wanted to make it all go away for her.

But she too is a warrior. She didn't need his protection. Need makes people weak.

But Steve wasn't weak. Despite needing her he'd had the strength not to let it interfere with what he knew she had to do. He'd never asked her to return because he'd known how important it was to her. During every brief conversation he'd only said he missed her.

Every communication between them, be it voice or text, had ended with 'I love you.' In his texts he'd even spell it out fully without abbreviating it. The only time he hadn't said it was at the end of that last conversation; the one in which she'd told him not to wait for her. He'd been too hurt.

 _I know I can't make you love me._

He didn't have to make her love him. She did love him. In fact, loved him so much she'd begun to feel as though she was losing herself in it. She'd lived her entire life known for her own deeds or misdeeds. But in the months preceding that call from Amir, she'd felt more an appendage than a whole person.

She hadn't gone into their relationship blind. She was very aware that Steven J. McGarrett was someone who could never just coast. Being with him was like a wonderful, exciting, thrill-ride that you loved all the more because it took your breath away and scared the crap out of you and you couldn't do anything but hold on.

That was all gone now.

Taking in a shaky breath and wordlessly thanking her friend whose face registered sympathy and concern, she handed Sakina the laptop then pulled her scarf back over her hair. She had to leave. It would be dark soon and there was no moonlight by which to travel. Using a flashlight was too dangerous.

She stepped out into the crisp early evening air and shivered as she hurried along the road back to her camp. It would be near freezing tonight. What she wouldn't give to be back in the warm air of Hawaii . . . As though made from the very paper on which the words were written, her heart tore into a hundred little pieces. Sobbing, she dropped to her knees right there in the middle of the dusty road.

 _I know I can't make you love me if you don't._

…

Several days later, after he was fully awake, he'd been debriefed. He'd still not been permitted to call home. He knew that his ohana would have been devastated, (if they'd even been notified). It was cruel to prolong it and he needed to put them out of their misery. The medical staff had only looked at him apologetically when he'd badgered them for the use of a phone and told him "Ainda não mas como tempo." (Not yet but in time.)

The one most likely behind it all, a guy he assumed was CIA, sat silently in the corner of the room like a vulture waiting to pick his bones. A Navy captain, (dressed in civies), the doctor who'd been treating him and, (also without anything to identify his occupation) one Lieutenant Albert Singleton, sat in chairs beside his bed. Singleton's bland Midwestern face had creased into a gigantic transforming smile upon seeing his commander relatively hale and sitting propped up in a hospital bed.

The doctor had a nurse, the really nice one with the soft voice; take his blood pressure one more time before they began. She informed Dr. Florez of the reading and he nodded to the others saying, "It's alright to speak with him for a while but if I see that he's tiring, we will have to end this." He looked pointedly at both the captain and the mysterious man in the corner.

Both doctor and nurse left the room but the nurse, Araceli was her name, (and she was a hundred if she was a day), had been instructed to observe the goings on through the small window in the door.

Mystery man attempted to protest but decided the better of it when everyone in the room, Araceli included, glared at him as though they were about to bodily throw him out.

Having made his point without even using any words, Captain Kriskie settled back in his chair and asked the Commander to recount what he remembered of the firefight, his capture and his journey here.

He began with telling them of providing cover fire so his team could make it to the pick-up point.

Singleton had nodded silently at that. He'd been overwhelmed by guilt at leaving his leader behind and had risked his career by notifying McGarrett's family. Though they'd never know any details, he'd hoped it would provide some sort of closure for them.

Steve told them of being in the custody of the rebels who'd essentially won him like a prize, (a very tattered one), after defeating a band of loyalists. The victors had discovered him lying bloodied, half-dead, and tied to a carry pole. After discussing it, they'd decided he may be worth some money to someone, (their captive is most likely an Americano and the Americans have lots of money), and carried him to their camp. It was located just outside a small village that sported its own pharmacy. The pharmacist also apparently provided medical care as well for the locals.

When he'd asked them about the ransom, assuming it was what allowed him to be released rather than just shot through the head or left to die on his own, he'd gotten only silence. Nodding in acceptance of the non-answer, he intended to continue the tale but Kriskie interrupted him. Giving a not very friendly glance toward the man in the corner, he'd said while trying not to smile, "Let's just say that you must have some very influential friends."

He told them of traveling through the mountains and how he'd been able to get into the embassy by dressing as a guard.

It took nearly an hour to fill them in on all that he remembered of his circuitous route to this hospital in Boa Vista.

Captain Kriskie had ended it when he noticed that the Commander had become even more pale than when they'd first arrived to debrief him and was having trouble focusing on the questions. At that time, alerted by Aracele, Dr. Florez had come into the room to announce that his patient had enough for the day and that they should be leaving.

"I'm not done with him yet!" announced Mystery Man.

"Yeah, you are." said Lieutenant Singleton who drew himself up to his very impressive six-foot-four. Mystery Man knew that seeking back-up from anyone in the room was useless. He just snorted in annoyance and turned on his heel then walked out the door.

…

Danny was worried about Steve's sister falling apart but he didn't know how any of them were going to make it through the service. Until they gathered in the church sure to be overflowing with bereaved friends and admirers, it still somehow didn't seem final. Up to that point they could delude themselves with the fantasy that Steve was only on deployment and that he'd eventually be returning. He was only off somewhere righting wrongs and, when finished with saving the world, would be swaggering through the door, wearing that lopsided grin.

He hadn't ceased in his efforts to locate Steve. He'd called the Naval authorities every day but any further insistence that they should be out looking for one of their own was met with icy disregard. The ranks had closed seamlessly leaving no fissures at which to pry. Unless a miracle happened, Steve would be alone and abandoned forever.

Again gazing at the hauntingly empty office across from his he felt his eyes begin to burn and with a choking sound put his head down on his arms and felt hot tears soak into the sleeves of his shirt.

How would he or any of them get through this?

….

He'd just picked up his black suit and had hung it still neatly encased in the drycleaner's bag on the hook in his office.

They were to meet here and travel to the church together. They needed each other's support to get through this. Mary had calmed down somewhat but she still looked like a beaten puppy and the very picture of grief. Though Joe would be coming directly to the church from the airport, Doris was, (of course), nowhere to be found. He wouldn't be surprised if she showed up for the ceremony. He wouldn't be disappointed if she didn't.

He'd decided on the suit rather than his HPD uniform. At the moment, and possibly forever, he wanted nothing to do with uniforms. Being a cop, he wouldn't be able to avoid them but right now uniforms signified those who'd abandoned his friend only God knows where.

"What ever happened to that 'Leave no man behind' bullshit, huh?!" he'd yelled over the phone to the uniform on the other end of the line. Uniforms had stonewalled any attempt to find Steve, his brother. They may never find where he was to forever lie.

Knowing how Danny had felt, both Chin and Kono had eschewed their HPD attire for black. Their badges, with the mourning band fastened across them, would be proudly displayed. To do any less would be disrespectful. Danny wondered how Steve would have felt about the uniform thing. He probably wouldn't be happy about it but he would understand. He guessed it really didn't matter anymore. Besides, there were bound to be countless uniforms, both police and military, on display at the church.

He'd called Rachel to make sure Grace was okay to attend the funeral and, having changed in the mens room was now attired in the suit. He'd been about to signal the cousins that it was time to leave for the ceremony when the phone rang.

"Not now dammit!" he'd yelled to no one in particular as he reluctantly picked up the land line.

Chin and Kono looked on apprehensively. They couldn't possibly be called out on a case right now. They looked on as Danny paled and swayed. Chin rushed forward to steady him while Kono quickly shoved his chair behind his knees.

They heard him swallow loudly then croak out one word, "Steven?"

…..

Steve shifted on his stretcher trying to find a more comfortable position. Just the travel to the airport had worn him to the bone. The military had finally picked up the ball and he was now on a C130 transport on its way to Hickam. He'd only a scant few minutes to call home again. This time to tell them he was on his way. Danny still sounded stunned. Happy but stunned.

….

Their first glimpse of him was joyful yet at the same time dismaying.

Steve limped down the ramp, looking as though he could barely put one foot in front of the other. Danny suspected there was an empty wheelchair somewhere or even a stretcher the stubborn man refused to take advantage of.

He looked like crap. It was all they could do to not stampede toward him and just carry him home.

But the smile was still the same. When he looked up and spotted them a wide lopsided grin blossomed on his gaunt face. Danny, hoping it would keep them from getting shot, flashed his badge at the guard and took off running to greet his brother; Chin and Kono right behind.

The first to reach him, not even caring what anyone thought of the embrace, Danny gathered his friend in his arms and held on like there was no tomorrow. They stood that way until Steve pushed him gently away and said, "I'm okay Danno. You can let me go now. It's a little hard to breathe with you holding on so tightly."

Danny, sniffing back unshed tears took a step backward and scolded, "Don't you ever, ever, fucking do this again you idiot!"

Then it was Kono's turn and she was folded into Steve's arms as he carefully held her to his bulkily bandaged chest then clasped Chin into the embrace as well. Afterward, no one would admit to it but every one of them had cried tears of joy.

Steve was home.

…..

A week later:

There she stood, looking a bit more careworn, her porcelain skin reddened by sun and wind but, as always, beautiful.

His shock at seeing her here had rendered him speechless and nearly immobile. When he'd answered the door, the last person on earth he expected to see standing on his porch was Catherine Rollins.

To say that he is conflicted doesn't do this feeling justice. He'd waited so long. He'd hoped for so long. Now, here she is – the embodiment of any dream he's ever had. The woman he'd hoped to build a life with; the kind nearly everyone else on the planet just seem to fall into effortlessly. The one he'd concluded he was never to have.

Here she stands. The woman he'd loved more than life itself.

Her eyes dropped to look at what time and injury had wrought. He was thinner than she'd ever seen him; eyes shadowed and cheeks hollow. She could see a new scar that began at his temple and disappeared into the hairline over his right ear.

"I've missed you." she said with all the sincerity she could muster. Steve didn't respond. He only stood there, his eyes traveling over her as hers had evaluated him.

Finally, he cleared his throat and said, "You look good Catherine." He said nothing about missing her.

"Thank you." she said, not able to return the compliment. Steve looked like hell.

She wondered if he'd let her take care of him. She used to do that . . . before. She'd change bandages and give him his medications and make him eat something, argue with him about returning to work when he should be home resting. She'd soothe him when in the middle of the night he'd awaken wild-eyed and drenched in sweat.

He'd done the same for her on several occasions, especially after Billy . . . He'd shush her and kiss her forehead and hold her against his chest where the steady beat of his heart would drum out whatever had clawed at her in the darkness. He'd murmur words like, _"It's okay now Cath. You're with me. Nothing's going to hurt you. I promise."_

Later, when they lay in bed her fingers would trace over the old scars that marred smooth skin stretched over muscle and sinew. Sometimes she'd know how he'd acquired them and sometimes not. What she does know is that she's grateful Steve had survived whatever had put those marks on his body.

But all that was part of a life she'd destroyed. Perhaps she should only hope that he doesn't hate her.

So here they stood without words. There weren't any that could make up for what she'd done. Her large liquid eyes held guilt and love. His held only sadness.

….

 **There you have it. Steve is finally home. I'm ending it here. If you think it needs more, plead your case but keep in mind that romance is not my calling. There are other writers who could do this better justice and the show will be taking up the issue soon – or should be, dammit!**

 **My apologies to any speakers of Spanish or Portuguese. Errors may be blamed on Google translator.**

 **Mahalo**

 **PS - Will be hauling my laptop in for repair and may not be writing much until it's fixed. Who knew that laptop cases don't bounce very well and aren't quite as indestructible as advertised?**


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